


Olympus

by Vortaesthetic



Series: Ascension [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-04-04 16:58:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14024640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vortaesthetic/pseuds/Vortaesthetic
Summary: As Odo takes the reins in the Link as a driving force in the Dominion, their ages-old empire struggles to adapt to the forces of change and the repercussions of defeat.





	1. Chapter 1

Innerol III was quiet at last. The insurrection was over.

Black smoke billowed on the horizon, fires burning through the cities for miles. Innerol III had never been a beautiful planet-- it was an industrial planet that specialized in mining of resource minerals and refining. The remnants of ancient jungles, signs when natural life had survived here were sparse, at best--scattered far and wide to grow almost defiantly amidst the industrial skeleton of this choking world.

Perhaps there was something in the air that made the people of Innerol rebellious. There had been numerous rebellions throughout this system over the years since they had been annexed into the Dominion. Every time, the Jem'Hadar come in to stomp out the fires and calm the unrest...but defiance remained, as always. The dissidents got executed and new voices rose to the top in their absence. Uneasy peace would reign for a few years until someone inevitably tried to turn back against the Dominion and the Jem'Hadar would return, heralded by the percussion of orbital bombardment. This latest incident began not long after word of the Dominion's loss in the Alpha Quadrant reached the ears of the rebel faction leaders of this planet. They saw weakness in the loss of the Dominion and they seized the moment, taking control over strategic mines and refinery complexes. Truly, it was a spirited effort...but the unavoidable fact was that the Founders' Dominion remained one of the most powerful military arms in the galaxy and smashed the planet to smoldering tinder, snuffing out the fledgling rebellion before it had even truly begun.

The Eighth Defense Group had been assigned to retake and hold a mining quarry that was responsible for supplying trace minerals for dilithium manufacturing. The group had been tasked to remain in place until the order to withdraw was given--and the active hostilities had ended over two weeks ago. The Jem'Hadar lived by protocol and protocol dictated that they stayed until told otherwise. So they remained, guarding this pit against a planet of ghosts.

Seventh Rotan'talag steadily retraced the same path he'd worn into soil of the quarry rim for the past five hours. There was little else to do, but he didn't mind the mindlessness of this work. He was Jem'Hadar. He was birthed for the fight, made of muscle and plated bone. Strength crafted to kill, but created to protect. He was honed with that purpose in mind and he'd harbored no fantasies of being a philosopher. So he paced his watch post and waited for sunset to come, when he could at last trade places with another of his company and he would get the chance to savor _stillness._

Rotan'talag heard a commotion down at the quarry bottom, and saw a Vorta he'd never seen before standing outside the guard shack. This was a good sign-- new Vorta typically meant new orders. New orders meant an end to the pacing and a return to his usual duties at the helm of their cruiser. There was some commotion amongst the other sentries in his guard--Jem'hadar did not gossip in the traditional sense but contrary to popular opinion, they did talk to each other about topics of interest, and word began to spread quickly that this Vorta was there to find _one specific_ Jem'Hadar.

Rotan, not caring about the rumors, set the idea out of his mind and continued digging his rut in the dirt, one circuit at a time. Time passed. The sun dropped a little in the sky.

"Hello. You must be Rotan'talag!"

Rotan spun to face the Vorta that had snuck up behind him. He surveyed him with a critical eye. He was slender and short, broader at the shoulder than he was at the waist and hips. He was clothed in the brown patterned jacket typical of Vorta diplomats, his black hair brushed back neatly. He had keen lilac eyes and fair skin. Rotan was certain he had never met this particular Vorta before--but the fact that he still seemed familiar despite that indicated that this man must be one of rank.

"...I am Seventh Rotan'talag of the Eighth Defense Group. Who are you and what business do you have with me, Vorta?"

"I am Weyoun. I come in service of the Founders. I have been given a directive to locate Jem'Hadar known to be free of the need of white. Rumor led me here to Ourentia, to you. I have a matter of importance I must discuss with you."

Rotan'talag was stunned by this, but one wouldn't know it from looking at his stoic face. "I am on patrol detail. Any business you have with me must wait until I am relieved--"

Weyoun shook his head with a smile.

"You have already been relieved," he said, gesturing with a nod of his head down to the field house at the bottom of the quarry. "I personally arranged that with your field supervisor twenty minutes ago. Please, a moment of your time?"

Rotan paused for a moment to lock gazes with the patrol guard around him before he holstered his disruptor rifle and followed the small Vorta to the lift elevator to head back to the guard shack.

Weyoun easily settled into the seat across from him, sipping on a cup of bitter tea. "Please, have a seat!"

Rotan'talag slipped into the seat cautiously, unused to such things. The comfort of Jem'Hadar was not typically considered--in fact, many Jems prided themselves on withstanding physicsl extremes. The offer of a chair suggested that Weyoun intended to speak to him at length, which was not something he looked forward to. He'd known Weyoun all of five minutes and he already got the impression that he could carry on for years.

"Right, I should get down to business. Like I said before, I've been tasked with locating representatives from your species that can live independently of Ketracel White. I have reason to believe that you are one of those people."

"What makes you so certain of that?"

"Genetic testing records from the hatchery facility. Archived reports from your supervisors. Testimonials from your overseers. Analysis of White distribution records, that sort of thing. Little details, but difficult to refute. Of course," Weyoun smiled, "The most obvious clue was the lack of tubing. Everything else is just window dressing."

Rotan stared quietly at the Vorta for a beat. "I won't deny it. But I am not the only one."

"No, you aren't. I've identified three other individuals just like you. Finding you wasn't my only directive, though. I was instructed to bring you back to the Great Link. So that the Founder could speak to you personally."

"I see. What about my current posting?"

Weyoun drained the rest of the cup. "Already taken care of, I assure you. You've been relieved here and reassigned to Core. We leave for transport in ten minutes."

"How efficient. You had to have already done that."

"Naturally."

Rotan could already feel the headache pulsing below his bony crown. He would be accompanying this Vorta all the way back to the Great Link, at least a three day transit. That was too much time to spend with any Vorta.

Rotan'talag gave the Vorta a curt nod and left to go tend to his small locker. He didn't keep much in the way of belongings-- Jem'Hadar weren't particularly materialistic or sentimental as other races were. But he had a good whetstone in his locker he'd carved and shaped himself and he would like the chance to keep it.

With a silent nod, he bid farewell to his former First and vanished with Weyoun in a shimmer of light.

Rotan'talag was surprised to find that they did not board a standard attack cruiser, but instead materialized on a full-sized warship. Weyoun wasted no time trying to take him on a tour of the ship, his explanations running on into lighthearted babble that Rotan'talag easily tuned out. Everything was standard regulation, no surprises. That was the nice thing about the Dominion--everything had precedent. Everything had protocol.

"My quarters are on the central deck in the starboard vestibule. Should you have any questions during my off hours, You are welcome to come see me there," Weyoun tittered, his smile just a little too perfect to be genuine. Rotan simply shook his head and headed back toward the turbolift.

"I won't," he said simply, as the door closed before him.

____________________________________________________________________

Not for the first time, Odo had wondered if this was worth all the trouble. He missed the routine of his old life. The familiar cast of characters he interplayed with on a daily basis. He would never admit it in a thousand years, but he missed the predictable unpredictability of Quark, too.

Most of all, he missed reviewing reports with Nerys every morning, charting the course of station life for the day...missing the curve of her lips, her white smile. Her bold, fiery hair...

Most of all, he wished that he could invoke her firebrand personality so he could shock the others into getting a damn thing done!

That was the most frustrating thing about the Link, in truth. A thousand intermingled, connected minds was a wonderful thing in theory-- but the reality was that the vast majority of the Link was apathetic to nearly everything. Most of the Founders had no particular inclinations about how The Dominion functioned, how it worked, what it did. Oh, they remained plenty judgmental. That wasn't the issue. It was that he couldn't seem to get many of the others to care.

Leaving the administration of their system to the Vorta had clearly taken a toll upon the Link. With no hands in the minutiae of their empire, many of them had lost touch with what the most basic needs of their subjects actually were. One would think that they would at least be cognizant of the fact that most organizations required food and water to survive. Odo was more than a little dismayed to find that some Founders had completely lost touch with that.

Laas (who had recently returned to the Link) was one of the other prominent voices in the changeling deep. He may have befriended Odo in his brief stay on Deep Space Nine, and he continued to consider them friends...but it was no secret that Laas had very little regard for solids and that was readily reflected in his suggestions. It was nice to have a friend like him, but there were times that Odo found the dogmatic attitudes tiring.

It was ironic that the species capable of changing into anything they want to be held some of the most rigid, inflexible attitudes of any species he had ever met. It was one of the things that convinced him that the Link needed to interact with Solids more often. That they would benefit from interacting and coming to understand the people under their rule...but such goals are much, much easier said than done, particularly when you are intending to fix a system that has been essentially frozen in place for at least two thousand years.

Odo sighed as he flipped through the activity scroll on his datapadd, his attention drawn to a message that Weyoun sent him. The message was very succinct (unusual for Weyoun, but they had recently had a conversation about brevity and it appeared that he had taken it to heart), saying only that he had located the last Jem'Hadar from their list and that they were on their way back to the Link.

Laas came into the room, undulating along the floor in the form of a Tarkalean Ribbon Asp. He came up to Odo, and pooled out into a golden puddle before he assumed his humanoid form.

"Reports. Always looking over reports. Curious that this is the way I always find you."

Odo continued to examine the manufacturing reports of the shipyards on Overne. "I find it gratifying to know what's going on in my back yard."

"So you're not denying that you do this for your own pleasure then?"

Odo set his padd down, effecting only the mildest sense of irritation as he turned toward Laas. This was an age-old battle, a source of constant bickering that had become tiresome. "No. I'll admit to that. But surely someone should be looking over the information the Vorta send us?"

Laas looked over the padds with distinct disinterest. "Is that not what the Vorta are for? What is the purpose of having servants if you insist on doing the job yourself?"

Odo shook his head. It would be fruitless to argue about the subject. He'd done so a thousand times, to no effect. "What is it, Laas?"

"The Link requests that you come down from the surface. Indurane has news to share with all of us."


	2. In Transit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are we there yet? No?

They had a problem.

They had only been in transit for five hours and Rotan was already bored. Yes, without the white he was forced to do mundane things the other Jem'Hadar had no need of--sleep and eating in particular--but there was only so long that a Jem'Hadar could stand to be without activity before he became cross.

He was denied access to the training rooms by the ship's automated security. That wasn't so surprising, even though it was a little annoying. He was yet unassigned, his gunction aboard this ship undesignated. And therein lie the crux of his problem.

Jem'Hadar by their very nature were functional creatures. The Vorta were, too, in a less focused and less literal way. But A Jem'Hadar always had a purpose, a role, a task to complete. At all times. A rank. Having something to do was not merely a means to alleviate boredom, but was essential to his sense of worth and identity. How could he hone his skills as a warrior and serve the Founders if he was denied the opportunity to even train? He would go mad if he didn't have some sort of outlet for his violent tendencies.

He thought then that he must have been selected to serve on the crew that serves this ship. Or perhaps if he wasn't intended to join them permanently, the First would see fit to absorb him into his group for the duration of their journey. That would be an ideal fix in the short-term. He would have access to training facilities and would have roles and tasks again.

It was worth a try. Rotan'talag ventured to the bridge, unused to the fact that he didn't have to ask another soldier to cover his watch. It was too…simple.

Their discussion had not gone as Rotan'talag had hoped it would. The First of the unit stood watch over the bridge, watching as his subordinates took the helm. He seemed annoyed when Rotan'talag approached him. That was not unexpected, as the First often had much on his mind and interruptions were always bothersome.

"First, I must speak with you. I am unsure as to what my task is on this ship," Rotan'talag said. "Am I to join your company?"

"No, you are not."

"Am I at least permitted to use the training facilities?"

The Jem'Hadar first snorted as he gazed out at the soldiers manning the bridge. "Our instructions were to transport you. No instructions were given to me authorizing me to annex you into my unit. You are a passenger. It is outside of my authority to grant you use of those facilities."

Rotan'talag wanted to scoff, but to do so would have been impertinent. "I understand, First."

"Ask the Vorta," he said distractedly as he turned back to attend to his men.

Rotan'talag wandered down to the vestibule where the Vorta indicated his quarters were located earlier, intent on getting more information on what he was allowed to do during the journey.

Weyoun was intently focused.

He was working on a pet project in his quarters in his rare personal time, messing around with some of the odds and ends he had picked up through the course of nine lifetimes. At any given time at least half of his salvaged bounty was stored in crates scattered across the galaxy in obscure ports and safe-deposits...but Weyoun was an expert at finding interesting things in unlikely places and he was playing with some of his most recent finds now.

On this trip alone, he had acquired a number of things of interest: a collection of Idranian silverware, tarnished by neglect and disuse. A curious jar of liquid that held a moss-like organism that appeared to be at least partially sentient. A (very old) collection of winged insects from Risa, pinned to display cards and arranged in an obscure order that was known only to him. 

What currently held his interest was a device much more humble than any of the others; writing implements, used since antiquity in many cultures to scribe information directly to cellulose sheets for record-keeping.

A pen, ink, and paper. Anyone else would think his find rather blasé, but he took great interest in it. Writing in and of itself was a rapidly disappearing art form, a rare kind that Weyoun could appreciate. In their time, writing was less often utilized when digital media was so readily available. Most species he had encountered with sufficiently advanced technology to be influential on the galactic stage were often able to identify some degree of decay with manual writing skills.

What he was doing was a pet project, of sorts; a half-devotional, half-hobbyist handwritten reproduction of the Founder's Edicts, painstakingly printed with impeccably neat penmanship. He'd been at this for at least two weeks (Vorta devotionals were legendary for their incredible length), setting aside at least one hour each day to take the teachings he'd learned by heart and transpose them on to paper.

This book would be the most meaningful gift he could possibly give to Odo. As such, he took the utmost care in his work. He could not afford for it to be flawed in any way--

Which is why he was more than a little annoyed when the door-chime to his quarters sounded. He hadn't expected any visitors. The First would only communicate information or request orders from him by way of combadge or intercom unless it were a dire emergency. Seeing as though the klaxons were silent and the ship did not seem to be on fire, this must be a social call.

That only left Rotan'talag, the ship's only guest. Which was sort of amusing, seeing as though he had so confidently sassed him in the turbolift earlier (Not a day goes by that he does not thank the Founders for his wonderful ears).

Weyoun carefully tested the dryness of his ink as he gave permission for entry, not looking at the doorway as he tucked his careful work away in a sealed crate under his sleeping cot. He turned to Rotan'talag with a cordial smile, any trace of annoyance suddenly forgotten. “Good Evening, my friend! How may I help you?”

Rotan'talag snorted. This was a Vorta domicile alright, from the carefully curated stacks of junk and worthless scrap that covered every wall shelf and countertop down to the cloying sweetness of his hospitality. He knew little of this Vorta in particular, but the easy way in which he dropped honeyed words and assumed familiarity was typical of his species. In truth, they did not think much of others at all and the more cordial their words were typically closely correlated with the number of daggers they had prepared to thrust into one's back.

Vorta were duplicitous. Rotan would not pretend to be neutral about them. They sat where they did in the hierarchy for a reason, but obedience did not necessitate friendship.

“Come, friend. Have a seat! Did you wish to speak with me?”  
   
“Yes,” Rotan said simply. He did not elaborate further.  
   
“... how may I help you?”  
   
Weyoun showed him to a seat next to his own, one of the few uncluttered surfaces in this room. Rotan'talag ignored the seat, preferring to stand.  
   
“I came to ask you about my purpose on this mission.”  
   
“I'd thought I'd already explained that. We're going to see the Founders. Founder Odo wants--”  
   
“Not that. I need to know what I am to do during our travel there. I must have a task.”  
   
“No. The orders come from Founder Odo himself. You're to be transported. You are NOT to join a combat group.”  
   
“I must have some sort of task. Something to keep my focus. I do not have white to calm me, so I require specific tasks to keep myself under control. If I can do nothing else, I wish to at least be able to train. I asked First and was denied. He instructed me to ask it of you.”  
   
Weyoun made an odd little face at that, a flicker of what seemed to be annoyance flashing over his false cordiality. It lingered there a moment before it was gone, swallowed up by the same hollow smile he likely always wore. The Vorta was difficult to read. “Well, if the decision is mine...I don't see the harm in it. It is only three days' travel.”  
   
“It is not a matter of harm. It is a matter of duty. To always be ready to fight. To you, three days may seem little different from any others. To Jem'Hadar, it is the difference between a sharp blade and one that has been dulled by poor use. I must keep in motion to be ready to strike and claim victory when it is required of me.”  
   
“What a dramatic way to say that you're bored.”  
   
Rotan'talag snorted at the Vorta's obvious dismissiveness for his attitude. It was bred into both of them. Hardly a new phenomenon. It didn't matter that Weyoun defined victory in a different way. Not as long as their different tactics ultimately served the same ends.  
   
“Call it what you want. I am going to go train,” he growled as he turned to leave without waiting to be dismissed. Weyoun didn't pay it much mind as he turned to sorting through his systems monitoring padds. What did he care? He was not under his command. Not yet, anyway.  
   
“Have fun with that. Be careful!”  
 

   
Odo was immersed in the golden sea of the Link, anxiously waiting for word from Indurane. In the seas here, thought traveled at the speed of excitement; things that were exciting or incensing were communicated quickly to the group at large. Less exciting things were passed along more slowly. It was an effective form of communication, but the Link did have its shortcomings.  
   
Laas was around here, somewhere. He was in the currents, riding in the gyres of movement. He favored the currents because that was where some of the more influential and dynamic changelings tended to congregate. But there was still something to be said for the placid souls of the shallows, who were calmer and more measured. Less judgmental. More accepting. Even if sometimes they had as much personality as dry toast.  
   
_What is the news?_  The Founders ask.  
   
_In time,_  other Founders reply.  
   
Odo, impatient with the speed of gossip, flows into the current, too. He flows toward the center, where the oldest and most wizened of them contend with the most opinionated and vocal Changelings. He catches up to Laas there, where he joins the conversation.  
   
_Some of us have heard rumors of Ascendants. Tales of sightings, scattered all across the Quadrant,_  the Link tells him.  
   
_What are Ascendants?_  
   
He is inundated by images. Smoke, fire. Planets turned to cinders. A fleet of silver daggers sailing in unison, stabbing through the darkness of a starless void.  
   
Conquerors, one voice tells him.

 _Religious zealots,_ says another.

 _Blight,_ says another.

Odo can't help but think that their repulsion for these so-called holy warriors is a little ironic.

He casts his own thought out into the deep. _Do we have anything to worry about?_

 _Don't know. Not yet,_ is the response.

 _Vigilance will be our best weapon,_ the sea tells him. _It is in learning more about this threat that we will be better able to prepare._

Odo shudders. He's heard these words before. He heard them when a changeling stood at the heart of an attack on Earth, first shots fired before the war began. He heard them when a changeling drove a stake through the heart of the Obsidian Order and left it for dead in a sea of polaron fire. He's heard them many times and each call for vigilance is punctuated by the lingering threat of violence. He is sure this time is no different.

The golden sea quakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Gaunt, who keeps me on my toes in the best way. Also a huge shoutout to the Tumblr fam and anyone who dropped kudos or comments, which keeps the fires burning. You guys are beautiful and I adore you all!


	3. Chapter 3

 

“Commening Tactical Simulation Twenty-three.. Skill level 10. Endurance mode. Commence?”

 

“Affirmative.”

 

“Commencing,” the computer's voice droned, the tracklighting in the room going out and flashing intermittently to simulate the feel of fighting in the midst of power failure. Solid shapes prowled about him in the darkness, Rotan'talag's nerves on edge as he felt them out, taking a defensive stance. He felt their weight more than he saw them, catching only fleeting glimpses of his foes backlit in the flash of shorting power conduits.

 

He felt for heat, felt for motion. He struck out low, using his momentum and the bulk of his powerful legs to take one of his opponents to the ground while the others simply danced around. Holding defensive position simply resulted in an unending stalemate; he would only progess as he took initiative and refined his offensive skill.

 

As he untangled himself from his first foe, he felt the hands of a second blindly grazing over the crown of his horns in the dark. He lunged up violently, hoping to gore the newcomer even as he fought to free himself from his first opponent. Rotan'talag grinned in the dark as he felt his blow hit home, hard horns sinking deeply into soft flesh as he wrenched himself free and the opponent went to ground. With a hammer-like blow to the face of the other, he felt the vice-like lock around his ankle go limp.

 

He looked around the room, high on bloodlust and andrenaline as new combatants appeared in the room, rushing him, trying to tackle and pin him. He fell upon them with savagery under the spastic flicker of the halogen lights above, using every weapon at his disposal; hand legs, teeth, horns, forehead. There was a pile forming around him, tripping him and the computer opponents as they moved to engage them. He chewed them to ribbons when all was said and done. But the time he was overwhelmed out of sheer numbers, he had already surpassed his previous high score for this particular stage, ending with thirty six. Thirty-six enemies, all vanquished with little more than his bare hands and his force of will.

 

Not perfect. Nothing ever would be. But it was certainly an improvement.

 

He walked out of the training room when change of shift brought fresh participants in to run him off. He was already fatigued and it wasn't something worth starting a fight over, especially amongst other younger Jem'Hadar. He felt confident enough after his training session to ride the post-victory high for a few hours.

 

He may not have been given the gift of the White, but he would do his damndest to hold his own in battle so that no one would ever perceive a difference. Perhaps the Founders would see his devotion and his strength, offered freely, as evidence of the truth of his loyalty. His was love without price; what higher form of worship could he offer than that?

 

–

 

Weyoun was sweating bullets. Rather, _he would have been_ if his grip on his composure weren't as tough as it had been engineered to be. His heart galloped with anxiety, his brain worried that it was a step behind. A few weeks ago, Odo had assigned him literature to read and contemplate as a secondary mission on his quest-- and now the Founder was seeking answers.

 

“What was the point of that story, Weyoun? Go on. Tell me in your own words what it meant.”

Nine felt his heart hammer in his chest a little harder. He knew Odo well at this point, he knew what he wanted from him—he was grooming him for higher aspirations--but most of his terror was reserved for the ever-present fear of disappointing him. Odo could reassure him about that all he wanted, but the fear is always there.

 

“Ah...the intent of the story is to illustrate an ethical divergence between moral right and other forms of justification.”

 

“Very good. And do you see why I wanted you to read that?”

 

“I do, Founder. You expect for me to evaluate different moral arguments to select the most _morally right solution_ when facing dilemmas. But Founder, what if that isn't practical?”

 

“What do you mean, _isn't practical_?”

 

“Well, if we are in the middle of battle and I have a choice to make quickly, wouldn't evaluating moral arguments simply slow down my performance?”

 

“You're missing the point. If your sense of morality is well developed, you won't have that many choices to make. It will become instinctual. That's why I want you to think about this now, so you won't have to when you're in the thick of things. You have choices, Weyoun. I want you to be able to see that.”

 

Weyoun's head hurt a little. It was a lot to take in, but he did try. He knew that his inability to quickly grasp these new, radical ideas was annoying his Founder, but he truly did try. He gave Founder Odo his most genial smile and nodded. He could only hope Odo didn't pick up on any of his inner unease. “A question, Founder...I think what hinders me the most is the idea of one system of ethics being “better” than others. Who decides that? How do I know which standard to use?”

 

“You're thinking about it on a deeper level. That's good,” Odo said, trying to keep the grin that wanted to quirk his lips buttoned down. “Keep thinking about it. Keep reading. I don't want to give you the answer, because you need to find that for yourself.”

 

“I understand, Founder. Your wisdom and guidance is appreciated. I will continue to review this and endeavor to better understand what you have given me.”

 

“Weyoun, you don't have to genuflect at me. I want to _talk_ to you, I don't want you to kiss my feet.”

 

“Understood, Founder. I thank you for your time. And your efforts to guide and strengthen me.”

 

Odo held back a sigh. For every step he made forward with Weyoun, he seemed to take another one right back. He was trying hard, he could tell—it was a difficult thing to fight the compelled obedience that was coded into his DNA. The frustrating thing about it was that Odo was sure he had the capacity for this. The capacity to break the bond and to question his beliefs. There were times that he came so close to doing it that Odo felt like he could just reach out and pull it out of him. Not for the first time, Odo wondered if there was some sort of corrective mechanism at play to prevent him from fully realizing freedom of thought.

 

“We'll pick back up on your studies another time. Trust me, we're not done,” Odo said, his tone a little snarky once he saw the look of relief on Weyoun's face. “How is your progress on your return trip?”

 

“It's been uneventful, Founder. Only the most pleasant kind of boring. There were reports of civil unrest in the sector, but we haven't seen any sign of trouble so far. No swarmers, no rogue ships. We're presently travelling through the Yadera sector at warp seven and I estimate that we will be back in the vicinity of the Great Link within two days at our current heading and speed.”

 

“You're making excellent time.”

 

Weyoun preened a little at the praise.

 

“Tell me, have you had a chance to talk to _Rotan'talag_ yet?”

 

“Not at length, though I _have_ tried. He's very...traditional in that respect, I think. He hated me the second he saw me. By all accounts, a normal Jem'Hadar, except for his lack of White dependency. But fear not,” Nine says with a confident smile, “I am as tenacious and charismatic as ever.”

 

Odo couldn't help the sardonic smile that tugged at his lips. “More tenacious and charismatic than Four was, I hope.”

 

“Oh, most definitely. I've had more _experience,_ one could say.”

 

“At the very least, the two of you are going to have to learn to get along. When your ship arrives at the Link, I want to meet with both of you. _Together._ So you two need to learn to start playing nice.”

 

Weyoun nodded crisply. “I understand, Founder Odo. We'll become fast friends, you'll see.”

 

Odo was clearly skeptical. “Good luck with that. Stay out of trouble, both of you. Notify me when you come into transporter range.”

 

“Understood.”

 

Odo signed off without further comment. Weyoun remained in place there, alone in the stateroom. He picked at his nails while he sifted through his old memories of Jem'Hadar, trying to recall any instances in which he was able to forge a personal connection. He failed to come up with any examples of personal experience and decided to try a different tack with this particular soldier. If he couldn't catch this particular fly with honey, he would simply have to find another way to differentiate himself from the rest.

 

Finding a way to relate to a man like him was a daunting challenge. Fortunately for him, Weyoun could appreciate a good challenge.

 


End file.
